


Flowers Are Better Than People (Angel Don't You Think That's True?)

by MJ_Spooks



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: "how do I passive-aggressively say 'fuck you' in flower?", Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, But a little different, M/M, and definitely already knows flower language, because Aziraphale is a bastard, but he's totally genderfluid, tagged as M/M because Crowley presents as male for the duration, yes we're doing that one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-26 18:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21378298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MJ_Spooks/pseuds/MJ_Spooks
Summary: He liked plants more than people, hence his decision to become a florist, and if he liked something, he was utterly incapable of not obsessing over it. When he committed to the study of something, he committed wholeheartedly.So, naturally, he was well-versed in The Language of Flowers.And, looking over his notes, it almost made sense. Almost. There was, in fact, a pattern, between what Mr. Ezra Fell liked, and did not like.The thing was, if the pattern was in fact there, and wasn’t just some insane coincidence, then Mr. Ezra Fell was more than alittlebit of a bastard.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 460
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. The Real Plot Hole is Aziraphale Using Google

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this very well-known tumblr post, but with a bit of an alteration. Obviously Crowley is the florist, but you can't convince me that Aziraphale is not exactly the kind of person who already knows how to Speak Flower, so here we are. 
> 
> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I am physically incapable of restraining myself. Plus side, I already have three of the projected five chapters written. That said, I reserve the right to change the number of chapters.

The first time he came in, Crowley didn’t think much of it.

Well, now. That’s not _entirely_ true, he thought a lot of it, actually. Mostly things like “What the Heaven is he wearing,” and “How can a man that ridiculous be that attractive.” Which, he would argue, are perfectly reasonable things to think about a man who somehow managed to make tweed and grandpa sweaters and a _bloody bowtie_, all worn completely earnestly, look good. 

No, the thing he didn’t think much of was specifically the man’s order. He’d come in, all prim and proper and bloody fussy, with a neat little hand-printed note in the most obnoxiously nice handwriting Crowley had ever seen (he’d had the most ridiculous urge to try and wrangle his own chicken scratch for hours afterwards), and asked for four bouquets. All the same, with a fair bit of freedom on Crowley’s end as to what they should include. He was only told they had to have peonies, and snapdragons. The rest, the man said (in an equally obnoxiously nice voice), was entirely up to Crowley. “I’ll leave it to the professional,” he’d said. How quaint. Crowley might’ve sneered if he hadn’t been so fascinated. 

When asked who the bouquets were for, the man had hummed slightly, and given a non-committal answer. He’d deemed it “not important,” and only said that they were not for a romantic partner. It wasn’t much to go on, but Crowley had worked with less before. 

At least he had two specific flowers, which together informed the overall color scheme. Not romantic meant no roses, and anyway he avoided using roses whenever possible. Overrated, they were. 

Honestly he could do a bouquet in just the two specific flowers, but the customer had given him carte blanche to do more, and he liked to play. Why not?

He’d eventually designed something that he thought suited the man’s overall aesthetic, since the color of peonies, and some of his available snapdragon stock, matched well with the pale creams and blues he’d seemed to favor. Add some blue hydrangea, and ivory daisies, plus some greenery to balance it out, and he was satisfied with the result. Well, as satisfied as he could ever be with something so pastel and saccharine, anyway. 

Mr. Ezra Fell seemed to like the result, and Crowley put the interaction out of his mind.

Or, rather, he would have, except that wasn’t the last time he saw Mr. Ezra Fell. 

After the first order, Mr. Fell would come in once every couple of weeks, each time with a small note in his perfectly lovely handwriting, and order increasingly specific bouquets with his perfectly lovely voice. He continued to allow Crowley some small measure of freedom over the bouquets, but Crowley couldn’t help but notice that sometimes he would seem overly pleased with the additions, for no discernible reason, and would request the same to be used later. 

There seemed to be no pattern to what would please him. He didn’t seem to have a specific preference for color, or texture, or size, or anything Crowley could observe. Likewise, he never complained outright about any of the liberties Crowley took, but some were met with a small downturn of his normally radiant smile. This, too, did not seem to follow any rule that Crowley could discern. 

This was unacceptable.

Crowley found, for some reason, that he was quite determined to please Mr. Fell. Something about him drew Crowley in, which was unusual, to say the least. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t notice people, or that he didn’t like what he saw. He just generally preferred people on an aesthetic level, and rarely continued to like them as he got to know them. He was a loner by nature, never quite fitting in with the people around him, and so he’d just gotten used to being alone. 

Mr. Ezra Fell made Crowley want, very much, to not be alone.

Rather, he would’ve quite liked to spend more time with the man, who seemed impossibly pleasant. Most pleasant people irked Crowley like nothing else could, because he was very good at reading people, or at least their flaws. He saw through false pretenses like they were glass, hence his aversion to getting to know people. 

Mr. Ezra Fell, however, seemed completely, entirely, improbably genuine, and Crowley was drawn to him like a snake to a heat lamp. 

It wasn’t that he thought the man was perfect, not by far. He was, as mentioned, fussy, and a little too proper at times. He seemed easily flustered, and perhaps a little judgemental. Actually, Crowley thought that, underneath the sweet exterior, there was something of a bastard lurking, although he couldn’t confirm this. There was just something about him, little glimpses Crowley caught during their brief but captivating conversations, that seemed to hint at hidden depths. 

Still, his overall goodness seemed very real, and Crowley told himself that he was only imagining the glint of mischief he sometimes thought he saw. To make him more relatable, perhaps, since Crowley himself was made of mischief, or to make him seem more real. People as good as Mr. Ezra Fell simply couldn’t exist. Crowley half thought he was an angel, to the point that, until he’d learned his name, that’s what he’d called him in his head, and had very nearly slipped up and called him ‘Angel’ instead of ‘Mr. Fell’ on no less than three occasions. He’d made a conscious effort after the last time to try and only refer to him in the most formal way possible, even in his own mind, to avoid such an embarrassing slip up. It had not taken.

In short, Crowley was fascinated by him. Or more accurately, infatuated, but he was vehemently pretending that wasn’t the case. It wouldn’t do to develop feelings for a fussy _angel_. He was about the furthest thing from an angel one could get, and though Mr. Ezra Fell continued to purchase his bouquets, he’d never seemed especially fond of Crowley himself. He liked his work, certainly, and could be drawn into conversation easily enough, but his attitude towards the man was usually painfully professional, and at times downright frosty. 

Crowley couldn’t get a read on him. Which was probably exactly why he wanted so badly to please him. Crowley suffered from an inability to let sleeping dogs lie, as it were, and he hated puzzles he couldn’t solve. The angel was exactly such a puzzle, wrapped up in an inexplicably attractive package, and Crowley was bored, lonely, and very, very weak. 

He’d begun keeping lists of all the items Mr. Ezra Fell had ordered specifically, and noting which ones he seemed to have positive or negative reactions to. He had a small notebook that had been completely overtaken with the endeavor, because Crowley had nothing better to do than obsessively track the floral preferences of one singular man, apparently. 

It was one night, staring intently at said notebook, that he had a sudden epiphany.

At first, he dismissed it. Mr. Ezra Fell was, as established, an angel. And besides, no one knew that much about flowers, unless they worked with them. Even most florists didn’t. Crowley only did because, as stated, he could not leave things alone. He liked plants more than people, hence his decision to become a florist, and if he liked something, he was utterly incapable of not obsessing over it. When he committed to the study of something, he committed wholeheartedly.

So, naturally, he was well-versed in The Language of Flowers. 

And, looking over his notes, it almost made sense. Almost. There was, in fact, a pattern, between what Mr. Ezra Fell liked, and did not like. 

The thing was, if the pattern was in fact there, and wasn’t just some insane coincidence, then Mr. Ezra Fell was more than a _little_ bit of a bastard. 

Snapdragons and peonies - representing anger, and deception. He’d liked the hydrangeas in that one, which represented frigidness. The daisies had been met with a faint, almost ironic smile (and he would love to know what exactly _that_ was about). 

Another bouquet, he’d requested sunflowers, which despite their cheerful and generally positive connotations, could represent false riches, and geraniums, representing stupidity. Then one had included orange lilies, which could mean hatred. Laurel for treachery. Nettle for slander. Lobelia for malevolence. 

The list went on, and every flower that had been specifically requested had some underlying, negative connotation. The flowers that he’d liked held the same. And each one that he’d rejected, daisies, forget-me-nots, zinnias, magnolias, all of those were overwhelmingly positive, with little to no negative associations. 

Mr. Ezra Fell, at a glance, was accusing whoever he was purchasing these bouquets for, of being heartless, cruel, lying, greedy, idiots. 

They had to be the same people each time, he thought, because it was always four bouquets, always all the same. The question was, who the Heaven was it that could make such a kind, if distant, man, angry enough to send not one, not two, but several insulting floral arrangements?

“I’ve got to be jumping to conclusions,” Crowley muttered to himself, looking at the list as if, somehow, it had another hidden secret to share, one that would somehow contradict and correct the one he’d discovered already. But no answer was forthcoming. Crowley needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my dear friend [solembum22](https://solembum22.tumblr.com/) who encouraged this nonsense and also took my choice of title and ran with it, adapting the entire song, much to my amusement:
> 
> Flowers are better than people  
Angel, don’t you think that’s true?  
They’re loud and their vulgar  
and have such unpleasant an odor  
Why Anthony, I’d almost think it was you  
Shut it, Angel  
But people will always surprise you  
Anthony, don’t you think I’m right?  
I suppose that is true  
Though none more than you  
Why thank you, now let’s say bonne nuit  
Bonne nuit  
Don’t forget the reservation at three
> 
> Also shout out to [this reddit post](https://www.reddit.com/r/interestingasfuck/comments/5i66xh/everyone_has_probably_heard_of_the_victorian/) for providing the flower information. I probably didn't research closely enough but, like. It's fanfiction, guys.


	2. Impressive How Far You Can Shove Your Foot In Your Mouth (Snakes Don't Even Have Feet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re, you just. You seem so bloody nice, don’t you, with your bloody sweaters and your smile and, and how you talk, and I can spot a fake a mile away, but you-! You’re so, you’re real. But you’re a right bastard, too, if you know what those flowers mean, and I think you do, because you seem the type-” 
> 
> “‘The type’?!” 
> 
> “Well! All the talk of books, and antiques, and you dress like someone from a hundred years ago got let loose in a thrift shop and just. Tried their best?!” Again, Crowley’s hands flew up. “You’re just, if someone was going to know what the bloody hell a flower meant, I’d put my money on you, is all I'm saying!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my attempts at linking things didn't go as planned last chapter. I admit I'm rubbish at html, I just copied and pasted codes off a guide and swapped out the necessary information, which apparently did not work. Honestly the two sources are a pretty easy google, and my friend's url was supposed to link to her tumblr blog, if you're that curious. Though, I would not say no to assistance.

Two days after Crowley’s startling realization, the angel himself graced the flower shop with his presence. Today, it seemed, was a ‘politely professional’ day in terms of his attitude towards Crowley, which it seemed a waste to ruin. 

Unfortunately, Crowley’s mouth didn’t get the message.

“You’re a bit of a bastard, yeah?” he asked, jotting down today’s order (narcissus today, for selfishness, and petunias - more anger). 

And then winced, because he hadn’t meant to ask that. 

Mr. Ezra Fell’s mouth fell open slightly, eyes widening a fraction, for all of a half-second before he composed himself. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly, eyes narrowing as his mouth turned down, and dammit, dammit, _dammit_, that wasn’t at all what Crowley wanted. He didn’t want to alienate the man. For starters, he was one of his best, most consistent customers. That he had a crush on the man, and that the man was an excellent conversationalist (when he could be coaxed into it, which had been more and more frequently of late) was just a bonus. Or, it had been. 

Well, in for a penny. He was screwed, anyway. “You hate these people,” Crowley said slowly, shrugging. “Either that, or- oh. Ngk.” 

It occurred to him that, perhaps, the angel had not been the one selecting the flowers. 

“Er, it’s just…” He needed to at least attempt some damage control. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. “The bouquets,” he said, as if that were an explanation of any sort. “It’s, ah. Are you, erm. Selecting the flowers yourself? Or are you, ahem. Working off of, of someone else’s suggestions?” 

That made sense, he supposed. Perhaps someone else was responsible for the insults. Perhaps, oh! Perhaps someone else was playing some sort of subtle trick on the angel. It wasn’t as though most people would understand flower language. Perhaps there was simply a friend in Mr. Ezra Fell’s life who did and thought it was a harmless prank, to make him send rude bouquets to four people who would never be the wiser. 

Of course, Crowley had arrived at his original conclusion because Mr. Ezra Fell seemed exactly like the sort who would know flower language himself. But perhaps that was just wishful thinking. He did, after all, fancy the man. 

The man in question stared at Crowley for a moment, as if trying to read his mind, to figure out what was going on in his head. After a pause, he said, quite carefully, “I have been selecting them myself.” 

Oh. Well. There went that theory, he supposed. 

“From, uh. I mean, how are you picking them? ‘f y’don’t mind my asking.” 

“Suppose I do mind,” the angel said, having adopted that frosty tone that made Crowley want to hide in the backroom and yell at his plants for a good, long while. 

“Don’t gotta answer,” Crowley replied, a little sullen. He was pouting, he knew. Which was ridiculous, because this was no one’s fault but his own. “Just. They’re. I noticed, uh. Well, they’re not very polite bouquets, when you, when you get down to it.” 

Mr. Ezra Fell scowled. “‘Not very polite,’” he quoted back, scoffing.

At this, Crowley’s defensiveness rose up. He straightened his stance, arms crossing, an eyebrow quirking up over the rim of his sunglasses to hopefully convey the glare in his eyes behind them. “They’re quite rude, in fact,” he said. “Incredibly so. You-! All the flowers you like, they’re, they’re, they all have, have meanings! All flowers have meanings, I mean, but the ones you like, they’re all, they’re rude! Mean, they are. Honestly, I’d like to meet whoever it is you’ve been giving them to, because they seem like they must be right twats-” 

“Why on Earth would you like to meet them, then?” Mr. Ezra Fell interrupted, looking exasperated (and perhaps a little embarrassed, he had a faint flush in his cheeks; then again, he might just be angry). 

“I ‘unno, morbid curiosity?” Crowley shot back, arms gesturing wildly. “You’re, you just. You seem so bloody nice, don’t you, with your bloody sweaters and your smile and, and how you talk, and I can spot a fake a mile away, but you-! You’re so, you’re real. But you’re a right bastard, too, if you know what those flowers mean, and I think you do, because you seem the type-” 

“‘The type’?!” 

“Well! All the talk of books, and antiques, and you dress like someone from a hundred years ago got let loose in a thrift shop and just. Tried their best?!” Again, Crowley’s hands flew up. “You’re just, if someone was going to know what the bloody hell a flower meant, I’d put my money on you, is all I'm saying!” 

Things were silent for a moment, and the pair stared at each other. By this point, Crowley didn’t figure he’d ever be seeing the angel again, and could only be thankful that his reviews online were already saturated with comments on his snide remarks towards customers. It was unlikely Mr. Ezra Fell could do any real damage to his reputation. Or his finances- wait. Could he sue? Crowley didn’t think so. 

Then, just as Crowley was about to break the silence (with what, he didn’t know; an apology seemed smart, but he’d never been one to apologize and probably would’ve failed horrendously at the attempt), the most unexpected thing happened. 

The angel _laughed_. 

It started out as what Crowley would have initially called a scoff, if not for the faint chuckle it grew into. And then continued on, from that faint chuckle to an outright one, and after a moment the angel was, in fact, laughing. 

If he’d not been so confused and upset, he might’ve noticed that it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. As it was, his appreciation of it was relegated to a tiny voice in the back of his head that was already scheming ways to get to hear it again, possibly multiple times. As many times as he could manage, beautiful laughter wrangled from the angel with no regard to how he achieved it. He’d jump out a fifth story window if he thought it could make the other man laugh like that again. 

This voice, of course, was being drowned out by the much louder and more pressing one that was repeating variations of the phrase “what the fuck” on a loop. He just barely managed to keep his mouth from following _that_ particular voice’s lead. Instead, he managed to restrict it to a quiet, “What?”, which he repeated a couple of times before finally finding the volume to ask, “What’s so bloody funny?” 

This only made Mr. Ezra Fell laugh harder, though he made an obvious effort to collect himself. Unfortunately, his attempts to do so seemed to have the opposite effect; each time he seemed to be making headway, he’d start up again. Eventually Crowley caught the bug as well, snickering a moment before breaking into his own laugh. The pair of them probably looked ridiculous, and for the life of him he still didn’t know what they were laughing at, but it was easily the best interaction he’d ever had with his favorite customer. It was also easing his mind a little, because the laugh sounded properly amused, not mocking, so he couldn’t help hoping that perhaps his rambling had somehow smoothed things over between them. He’d hate it if this were the last time he ever saw the angel. 

“Oh, oh. I’m so- so sorry,” Mr. Ezra Fell said, finally managing to calm enough to get the words out. “It just, it caught me off-guard, I wasn’t expecting that.” 

“Expecting what, exactly?” Crowley asked, hiccuping slightly. He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain control over his body. “I’m still not even remotely sure what just happened.” 

“Well, laughter is rather contagious, dear boy-” 

“Yes, yes, but why were you laughing in the first place?” 

“Oh.” Mr. Ezra Fell blushed, and that was a sight Crowley would take with him to his grave. And possibly his bed tonight, but he at least had the decency to feel a little guilty about that bit. “Well. Yes. I’m… I’m honestly not even sure, really. Just, I suppose, something about, about being accused of being a bastard, of all things, and by my florist, of all people! And then, you were so flustered, and saying such nice things, even though you were insulting me-”

“Oi! Who said me calling you a bastard was an insult,” Crowley interrupted, somehow managing a playful smirk. 

The angel paused, expression thoughtful for a moment before breaking into a smile. A very nice smile, in fact. A nicer smile than Crowley had ever seen on his face, and that was saying something, because all of Mr. Ezra Fell’s smiles were very, very nice. 

He was in very, very deep.

“Well.” The word was said as if it were a statement all on its own, and was followed by another, shorter, pause. “I suppose I hadn’t considered it that way.”

“Was a compliment,” Crowley drawled, leaning his hip against the counter, arms crossing. Had he imagined it, or had the angel’s eyes flickered to follow the movement? Had to’ve. 

“A compliment,” the angel replied, tone somehow both conveying a dry exasperation, and a pleased sort of fondness. “Well, then. Hmph. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised _you’d_ consider that a compliment, should I?” Crowley would’ve gotten defensive again, except Ezra’s voice hadn’t changed between the statements. Except that it might’ve gotten a bit flirty. Wait, no. That was him projecting again, wasn’t it? 

“So do I get to know who they’re for now?” he pressed, “Or are you gonna pretend you didn’t know full well exactly what sort of bouquets you were ordering?” 

The blush returned, more intense this time. Crowley wondered just how flushed the angel could get. 

“They’re for some… associates,” Ezra said, with a faint scowl. “They, well. I own a small business, it’s been in the family for generations. And my family has something of a history with a few other families, due to business relationships and a few marriages here and there. There’s some… legal matters, that’re a bit tied up at the moment. And I’ve had a few things I should rather like to say to the others, but of course I can’t, because it’d be bad for business, and anyway I can’t go upsetting over a hundred years of history just because they’re all, ah…”

“Twats?” 

“Quite.” Ezra chuckled again, but luckily this time it remained just a chuckle. Wouldn’t do to get him going again when this was the most personal information Crowley had gotten out of him in months. “Well, anyway. I found that I constantly had a few choice words for them on the tip of my tongue, and it was rather difficult to reign them in. So, I thought, oh, well. I’ll simply find a way to say it without saying it.”

“So flowers.” 

“Just so.” Ezra looked a bit chuffed by this point, like he was quite clever for having thought of this strategy. 

And, really, Crowley supposed it _was_ clever. After all, no one knew flower language anymore. No one, apparently, except himself, and the angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mia, why do you title all your fanfic chapters like that?"
> 
> I take out an earbud. "Wassat?" I ask. 
> 
> From the now-freed earbud, you can faintly hear one of the songs off From Under the Cork Tree playing. Nobody told me it wasn't 2005 anymore.


	3. Someone Contact Merriam-Webster So Aziraphale Will Get Off My Back (If You Want Me Capable Of Speech, Stop Short-Circuting My Brain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right, well. I, um. I’ll try not to, um. Made things awkward there for a moment, didn’t I?” He gave an uncomfortable laugh. 
> 
> “I think it’s been more than one moment, dear,” Ezra replied, but he seemed amused more than anything else, so Crowley forced himself to relax. “But, well. I didn’t… I didn’t exactly mind, I don’t think. It was just surprising.” 
> 
> “Didn’t mind isn’t the same thing as being alright with it,” Crowley pointed out. “Or, uh. Liking it.” 
> 
> Ezra sighed. Alright, that time, Crowley almost definitely had not been imagining anything. That sigh had sounded downright _wistful_. “Well, I suppose…” He paused, and Crowley waited desperately to learn how that sentence was meant to go.

It was a couple days later, Mr. Fell having come in to pick up his most recent order, when Crowley, very suddenly and without prompting, broke the silence between them to say, “No wonder you were so put out with some of my additions, yeah?” He grinned. “Sending someone a bouquet with a flower calling them a greedy lying arsehole isn’t much good if it’s also got a flower that says “I forgive you” or some such nonsense.” His smile, already a mischievous thing, turned downright evil as he allowed himself to peer over the tops of his sunglasses. “Should’ve been honest with me from the jump, you know, Mr. Fell. I could’ve been much, much meaner than all that.” 

“Is that right,” the angel replied, looking pleased as punch. “Well, I bow to your expertise. And, ah-” 

He paused, suddenly sheepish. Where moments before he’d been the picture of confidence, he suddenly couldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes, even through the sunglasses. Perhaps because of the sunglasses? Crowley knew they could be off-putting. His fingers twitched with the urge to remove them. 

“And…?” Crowley prompted, trying for gentle. He mostly succeeded, although he was incapable of hiding all his impatience. 

“Well, it’s just that… I’ve been your customer for a few months now. I, ah. I suppose you could call me Ezra?” 

“I’d love to,” would be what Crowley wanted to say. Or perhaps, “Thank you for deciding you like me enough to allow me to grace my lips with your first name,” or “I’ll call you anything you like if you keep smiling at me like that.” 

Or “I can think of a few things I’d like to call you,” but that was something best kept to the bedroom and under lock and key when Crowley was anywhere else. 

What he managed to say instead of all of those things was an eloquent, “Ngk,” which paired quite nicely with the red staining his own cheeks. He gave his head a light shake, then nodded. “Ezra,” he said, “Ezra, right, of course.” 

Despite himself, he couldn’t completely contain the idiotic smile that belied his joy over being granted this. It was stupid, because it was just a name. But it was the _angel’s_ name, and perhaps it meant that this interaction was step one to their relationship being something other than _painfully professional_. Probably not what Crowley would’ve liked it to be, but he’d settle for friends. He needed friends. 

A friend. He needed one, single friend. 

Specifically Ezra. 

Ezra, for his part, looked quite happy, if still a little on the sheepish side, with this turn of events. “Shall I, um. Well, it occurs to me that I don’t use your name all that often at all, dear boy, but, shall I, or, I mean, may I call you Anthony?” 

“That’d be fine,” Crowley said, the smile almost something you could call dopey by this point. It was odd, because normally he did not let people use his first name. There was a certain sacredness to it, and he didn’t like to hear it from people. They didn’t know him, they didn’t get to use his name like they did. But, even if Ezra didn’t know him, he’d certainly like for him to. 

Still, though, perhaps it was worth mentioning. “I don’t, erm, I don’t usually go by it,” he admitted, “Anthony, I mean. So, I might not always answer to it. Most everyone calls me Crowley.” 

“Which do you prefer?” 

“Whatever you like, angel,” he said, without thinking, and then immediately panicked as he realized his mistake. “Um. I mean. Uh. Wait-! I didn’t, uh-” 

“Angel?” Ezra repeated, and Crowley wanted very much to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself in it. There was an absolutely adorable confused little wrinkle on Ezra’s forehead, and it was only the presence of that wrinkle (and the absence of any apparent offense) that kept Crowley from simply turning and walking the six steps it would take him to get into the back room, where he could lock the door and hide from his slip up. 

“Erm, yes, right. See, uh, thing is…” 

He trailed off, not really sure where he’d been going with that. 

“Thing is,” Ezra prompted. 

“Thing is, uh. Well, first time you came in, you paid cash, yeah? And I forgot to ask your name, which, not a big deal, not like I’d forget you or your order. Then it was awkward, to ask after that, so I didn’t, and I didn’t know your name ‘til the fourth order, ‘cause you used a card that time-” 

“And you were… referring to me as ‘angel’?” Ezra’s expression was unreadable by this point, and Crowley had to contain the urge to scream. He needed to take a nap. For a week. Maybe a month. Hell, maybe a whole bloody century. That sounded like a plan. 

“Well, s’like I’ve said,” he muttered, eyes closed and rolled up as if praying for mercy to a God he didn’t believe in, “you’re nice, right? Impossibly nice. People aren’t that nice. So… so you’re an angel.” He coughed. “I dunno. Made sense in my head.” By this point he was fairly certain his face matched his hair, and wasn’t that a lovely thought? Idiot. Done in by a man in a bloody tweed jacket and the ugliest sweater that had ever been knit. And a _bowtie_. A _tartan_ bowtie. 

All Ezra had to say, for a long moment, was “Hm.” Crowley wondered if he could use that “hm” to dig himself a grave. 

Then, finally, “But… I’m also a bastard.” 

Crowley grit his teeth. “Angels can be bastards?” he replied. 

“You don’t sound too sure of that, my dear.” Crowley’s eyes finally opened again when this was punctuated with a giggle. A bloody giggle! 

“Well, I assume,” Crowley replied, a little desperate. “Plagues and stuff. They helped with that, didn’t they? Or, or they watched it, or something. Bastards, probably, the lot of ‘em.” 

“Or twats?” Ezra asked. At Crowley’s questioning look, he continued on, “Three of my four business associates share names with archangels. So I thought it funny. I suppose, if pressed, I’d rather be a bastard than a twat.” 

“Three of them?” Crowley asked. 

“Hm. Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel. Of course, Gabriel was not named for the archangel specifically. And Michael chose the name themself, and I’m not sure if they were thinking of biblical references at all at the time.” He paused, smiling. “Uriel’s family did get it from the Bible, but I think they just liked how it sounded more than anything else.” 

“And the fourth?”

“Oh, Steven,” Ezra said, with a wrinkled nose. “Not the worst name. Though, he certainly doesn’t do it any favors.” 

Crowley laughed at this, and filed away Ezra’s casual use of they/them pronouns for one of his associates for future reference. If they were going to be friends (their two most recent interactions certainly seemed to imply as much), it was good to know that there was at least some awareness of gender fluidity or neutrality, as the case may be. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too put off if he eventually saw Crowley in a dress. 

“Right, well. I, um. I’ll try not to, um. Made things awkward there for a moment, didn’t I?” He gave an uncomfortable laugh. 

“I think it’s been more than one moment, dear,” Ezra replied, but he seemed amused more than anything else, so Crowley forced himself to relax. “But, well. I didn’t… I didn’t exactly mind, I don’t think. It was just surprising.” 

“Didn’t mind isn’t the same thing as being alright with it,” Crowley pointed out. “Or, uh. Liking it.” 

Ezra sighed. Alright, that time, Crowley almost definitely had not been imagining anything. That sigh had sounded downright _wistful_. “Well, I suppose…” He paused, and Crowley waited desperately to learn how that sentence was meant to go. 

“I suppose I might’ve, well. Liked it,” he finally said, and the blush was back, along with a very shy, sweet sort of smile, and Crowley thought he was going to die because his heart was suddenly beating far too quickly, and his own face was far too hot. His neck too, come to think of it. And the tips of his ears. 

“Ngk,” he said, which still was not a word, no matter how many times he said it in one conversation. 

“S’a bit surprising,” Crowley said finally, once he remembered how real words worked. “I, uh. I sometimes got the impression you didn’t like me much.” 

“Yes, well.” Ezra sighed again. It was raining significant pauses and meaningful sighs. Crowley wished he could use them to water his plants. “I, ah. Perhaps I liked you rather more than I let on, and was, ah. Overcorrecting?” 

“Overcorrecting.” 

“Well, yes.” He had the decency to look flustered. “I was, hm. I suppose I didn’t think it would do to come across as _liking_ you.” The way he said ‘liking’ implied that, were they a good thirty years younger, give or take, he might have said _like_-like instead, and Crowley couldn’t figure out how he’d meant it. 

“You thought I might, what? Take it the wrong way? Think you fancied me?” He was trying for nonchalant, but didn’t sell it. Confirmation that the attraction was a one-sided thing hurt. But, at least he knew that it had never been a case of Ezra not liking him at all. That was a plus.

Of course, all that false positivity went out the window when Ezra replied with, “Might realize I fancied you, more like.” 

“Ngk.” 

“But, I have since realized, or, rather I suspect, that you fancy me as well?” This was said with the sort of hopefulness that made Crowley want to pinch himself. 

“Ngk.” 

“Please use your words, dear boy.” 

“Ngk. Right. Uh. Well, I. That is. Um. Yes?” Crowley flushed. “I mean, yes! No, no question mark. Yes. I do, uh. Fancy you, that is.” He scowled. “Bloody hell, why do I feel like a goddamned teenager right now?” 

Ezra smiled gently. “I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” he replied. “Though, at this point I’m not sure if there’s anything I shouldn’t, from you.” 

Crowley managed a self-deprecating snort, arms crossing. “Not really,” he confirmed, expression softening. 

Ezra, for his part, looked delighted. “Well!” he said, hands clasping behind his back. He rocked forward on his heels, eyes crinkling. “I hadn’t expected… I mean, I never thought you would think of, of someone like me, like that.” 

Crowley blinked, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Why the bloody hell not?” he asked. 

Ezra blushed, still smiling an almost-dopey grin. “Well, I’m hardly… hmph. I’m a bit frumpy, aren’t I?” Crowley started to interrupt, but Ezra continued before he could speak. “I like being frumpy, mind, I’m very comfortable. And I’m a bit too old, I think, to be skipping meals and worrying about my figure. But, it does somewhat limit my attractiveness, I suppose.” 

Crowley blinked again. And again, and a few more times, rapid-fire, so confused was he by this statement. “Limit-! Are you insane?” He huffed, twitching and wondering who the bloody hell had made his angel (wait, no, not his angel, getting ahead of ourselves-) think there was anything about him that would make him anything less than the most attractive person on the whole bloody planet. 

Which, once he had a moment to compose himself, he actually managed to say. By some miracle. 

The trade-off might’ve been that he said too much, as was often the case with him. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he insisted. “You’re-! Frumpy, fine, alright, sure, but, but looking comfortable isn’t unattractive! It’s very attractive, it’s so attractive, like you’re so sure of yourself and it makes me want to snog you all the bloody time. I am basically never not thinking about snogging you.” 

Ezra, for his part, seemed shocked by this rather impassioned proclamation. His posture straightened, head tilting to the side slightly, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. After a pause, he finally said, with a pleased little smile, “Perhaps we ought to have a date first, dear boy.” 

Crowley’s brain short-circuited. “A… a date,” he managed, nearly choking on his own tongue. “You. You want us to go on a date.” 

This managed to fluster the other man somewhat, who blushed. “Well… I had assumed… I thought, if you’re interested? Unless,” he paused, frowning, the cheer in his eyes dimming to disappointment. “Unless this is, ah, strictly physical?” 

“Ngk.” Crowley needed very badly to disabuse Ezra of that notion, but his mind was rather stuck on the word ‘physical’, and all it implied. He wasn’t an especially sexual person, mind, but he’d never been particularly opposed to it. The thought of doing anything physical with _Ezra_ was enough to make him consider his stance on the subject, enough so that he had thought about it, in detail, on a few occasions. 

But that was definitely not all he was after. Not by a longshot. “No,” he managed to say, realizing the silence had drug out, rather awkwardly, and that the angel seemed to be getting more and more morose by the second. “It’s not, ah. Strictly physical. Or physical at all, really. Well, except the snogging, that’s physical. But I, um. I mean, I had thought about other stuff, but, that was, that wasn’t the uh. The point of it all. Erm.” He wanted to bang his head against a wall. Bloody hell, he’d basically admitted to fantasizing about him. Which he had, but he didn’t need to go saying it. “Wasn’t even the bulk of it, really, just. Uh. Errant thoughts, sometimes. But, but mostly, I just. Ahem. Wanted to get to know you.” 

There was another long silence as Ezra seemed to analyze and mull this over. “But… you’re not interested in a date?” he asked, seemingly confused.

“I am!” Crowley insisted. “Just, you, uh. I wasn’t expecting you to suggest it. Sorry. I’m still catching up to the fact that you’re interested at all.” 

Ezra gave a little harumph, that fond exasperation present on his face again. “But you gave me such a hard time for feeling the same insecurity,” he noted. 

“Well I’m not the one that was doing a bloody ice queen act!” Crowley pointed out defensively. “I was always nice to you-”

“I’m a paying customer,” Ezra pointed out. “You might’ve just been nice to me so I would continue to patronize your shop.”

Crowley laughed at that. “Angel,” he said slowly, purposefully this time, enjoying the way Ezra’s breath hitched at the use of the endearment, “I am never. Ever. Nice to customers. Or anybody.” He paused, eyes looking over the rims of his sunglasses. “Just you.” 

He delighted in the flustered look on Ezra’s face, the sudden fidgeting. “Yes. Well. Hmph.” The man tried to compose himself, drawing himself up to his full height and managing to look imperious despite the red painting his cheeks. “Then I think a date is hardly out of the question.” 

“Not at all,” Crowley replied, feeling a little more in control of the situation now. It wasn’t just him. Ezra wanted to go on a date with him. He liked it when he called him ‘angel’. Crowley could work with this. “Got something in mind?”

Ezra grew quiet, thoughtful. “A picnic, perhaps?” he asked. Before Crowley could respond, he smiled widely, and it was like the sun coming out after the great flood. Crowley bit back his intended objection. If Ezra was that happy over the idea of a picnic, he’d bloody well get one. 

“I think that would be so lovely, don’t you, my dear?” the angel continued, hands clapping together in front of him. “Oh, I know the nicest little bistro, I could pick up sandwiches and we could, oh, I don’t know, feed ducks? Share a bottle of wine?” 

Crowley grinned. “Sounds great, angel,” he said. “When?” 

Ezra thought for a moment, and then, “Perhaps… Sunday? At noon? We could go to St. James’, it’s so lovely this time of year-” 

“Sounds great,” Crowley interrupted. “You already offered to handle the food, so I’ll bring the wine?” Ezra nodded, looking pleased. “Great. So… ah, yeah, that’s great.” 

A silence drew out between them, but this felt less awkward and more poignant. Eventually, though, Ezra broke it when he realized the time, and finally finished paying for his order. Crowley helped him get the door so he could carry his bouquets, and waved as the angel glanced over his shoulder one more time before turning the corner. 

A date. They had a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all the other angels have their proper names because they're not all that out there, but the stuffy obnoxious sorts I imagine their families being would hardly name a kid something as odd as _Sandalphon_. His name is Steven instead, because I have a personal history with that particular name, and trust me, it bloody well suits him. *shudders* 
> 
> But also, it's just funny. 
> 
> FYI, I've officially caught up to where I've written. I plan on working on Ch 4 (The Date(tm)) this weekend, but Pokemon Sword and Shield is out so... no promises. 
> 
> Ch 5 is a vague possibility because I assume I'm going to lose control of them on the date and require a follow-up. It's my nature. This was supposed to be a one-shot, look at us now.


	4. Dinner And A Show (I Can't Take Us Anywhere)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he carried on, he seemed to get softer and softer, and more and more pleased. Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of it. 
> 
> “I think,” Ezra said slowly, a mischievous spark in his eye, “that all the yelling is a front.” 
> 
> “A front,” Crowley repeated incredulously. 
> 
> “Hm,” his companion said, with a gentle, but firm, nod. “I think you’re actually quite soft,” he said with a grin.

If asked, Crowley would say that there were very few things in the world that sounded worse than a picnic.

He was not, as a rule, against the outdoors, being a florist and all. He liked plants, plants tended to belong outside, therefore he liked being outside. But picnics had always seemed far too twee for him to ever picture himself being on one, let alone enjoying it. He was nothing if not committed to his aesthetic, and his aesthetic was much more suited for things like trips to modern art museums and concerts than sitting in the middle of a park, eating finger sandwiches and feeding ducks. 

And yet. 

And yet, sitting in the middle of a park, on a tartan bloody blanket, with a twee little basket filled with twee little finger foods, and a bag of previously frozen pea and corn (because apparently bread was bad for ducks, who knew?), he couldn’t say he remembered ever having been happier. 

The wine helped. But, it was mostly Ezra, and he wasn’t so committed to his aesthetic that he couldn’t admit to that. Particularly not when one took the wine into consideration. It was a very good wine, and he’d drunk enough of it that his tongue was a little loose. It was fortunate that Ezra seemed content to carry most of the conversation, because Crowley was having a very hard time talking about anything that wasn’t how nice this all was, and how nice Ezra looked, and as pleasant as it was to say, it wasn’t exactly a conversation. 

What was a conversation, and a delightful one at that, was the subject of Ezra’s bookshop, and his customers. Or, rather, people who wished they were customers, since Crowley wasn’t sure they counted as such if they didn’t actually purchase a book. 

“Whyever would I want them to do that?” Ezra asked, looking offended at the very thought. “My books aren’t just-! I’m hardly carrying popular fiction, you know! There are books in my collection older than the building! Older than London, even!” 

Crowley might’ve thought this to be an exaggeration from most people, but in Ezra’s case, he was willing to believe it. 

“The average person,” the angel continued, “does not know how to properly care for such treasures! Why, the sheer audacity of some people! To come in, and to look at a three hundred year old manuscript, and think they can just-! Just take it home!” 

“How dare they,” Crowley drawled, arching a brow as he took a sip of his wine. 

“Quite,” Ezra huffed, not seeming to realize he was being teased. “It’s not as though I horde them away, you know. I’m perfectly willing to let someone read them, provided they do so in the shop. With supervision, to ensure they aren’t going to cause any irreparable damage.” 

“Perfectly reasonable.” 

“Hmph! Well, I’ve always thought so, but apparently some people disagree.” Ezra fidgeted a little, the hand holding his sandwich falling to rest on his knee. The other hand gesticulated wildly, eyes a little crazed. “I don’t know if you’re aware, dear, but my shop’s reviews are very nearly as bad as yours,” he said matter-of-factly. “As if it’s terrible of me, to want to ensure that these things are being, being cared for! Properly! It’s not just a book, you know, it’s a piece of history! And they’re ever so delicate…” 

He trailed off, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing thoughtfully. When he continued, it was to say, “I suppose you’d understand.” 

Crowley’s brow furrowed, and he lifted his head slightly from where it rested on his palm. He’d given up on sitting a good thirty minutes prior, and was sprawled on his side, hand propping his head up as he listened to Ezra rant. “Understand?” he prompted, not following.

Ezra’s eyes sparkled, his lips pursing for a moment. “I’ve seen you,” he said. “With your plants, I mean.”

Crowley scoffed. “Dunno if you’ve noticed, angel, but I hardly treat them ‘delicately,’” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, please,” Ezra snorted. “I suppose you’re referring to the yelling, hm?” He was one of the few people who had actually witnessed Crowley’s treatment of his plants, had heard his impassioned rage at the appearance of yellow spots, the drooping of leaves. At Crowley’s nod, he smiled. “Oh, but that’s hardly all you do to them,” he pointed out. “I’ve seen you, checking their soil and watering them, misting them, moving them about if you notice they’re not getting proper sun, or getting too much.” 

As he carried on, he seemed to get softer and softer, and more and more pleased. Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“I think,” Ezra said slowly, a mischievous spark in his eye, “that all the yelling is a front.” 

“A front,” Crowley repeated incredulously. 

“Hm,” his companion said, with a gentle, but firm, nod. “I think you’re actually quite soft,” he said with a grin. “I think you’re soft, and kind, and all the yelling, and the black clothes and snarky attitude and all that, are just you trying to look tougher than you are.” 

Crowley blinked, slowly, eyes glancing over the edges of his sunglasses. Ezra, for his part, looked quite happy with his assessment. 

“Soft.” 

“Soft,” Ezra repeated, nodding again. 

Crowley mulled this over, torn. On the one hand, everything in him raged against the very idea, was offended that anyone would ever think he was soft. 

On the other hand, he knew that Ezra was right. 

Perhaps not about being kind, exactly. Crowley didn’t think he was a particularly kind person. To be kind, you had to show kindness even when it wasn’t deserved, and he certainly didn’t bother to do that. He was kind to animals, and to children, and… and to Ezra. That was about it. Everyone else he treated with cold indifference at best, outright hostility at worst, and kindness was determined by actions, after all. 

But oh, was he soft. 

And that had never been more apparent than it was right here, right now, sitting on a tartan bloody blanket feeding peas to bloody ducks. He could hardly say he wasn’t soft when he’d allowed himself to be coaxed out of his comfort zone, all for the goal of making another person happy. 

Crowley growled slightly, scowling. “Yeah, well,” he began, not entirely sure where he was going with this. “I was right about you, alright, you’re a right bloody bastard.” 

“Am I, now?” Ezra asked, not looking put out in the slightest by this. 

“Yeah, you are,” Crowley continued, sitting up, legs crossing so he could thrust a finger into the other man’s face. “Oh, look at you, all soft ‘round the middle, dressed like everybody’s favorite grandfather, but you guard those books like a bloody dragon, I’d pay money to see you chase some of these people off. I bet you’re underselling just how much of a bastard you are, yeah, and that’s saying something, considering how much of one you already sound like.” 

Ezra frowned a little, and Crowley had to fight the urge to apologize, to take it back, because he was not going to cave, he wasn’t. He wasn’t the only one getting called out right now, alright, he just wasn’t. 

“They’re _delicate_,” Ezra insisted again. “People don’t-”

“Don’t know how to take care of them, yeah, yeah, so you’ve said. But they’re still paper and ink and, and bloody thread, and you act like they’re made of spun glass, like the world would end if something happened to one. And alright sure, maybe some of ‘em are rare, but all the value in them is assigned, it’s not like they’re inherently worth something-”

“They’re _books_,” Ezra interrupted, as if this explained everything. “They contain knowledge! Little glimpses into, into the past, into people’s lives, their _hearts_-” 

“And there’s dozens of copies of most of them, hundreds, and you treat every single one like it’s the only copy in the world,” Crowley pointed out. “If the value is in the knowledge, in the history, then one copy’s as good as another, and nothing bad’ll happen if your one single copy has a page that’s a little bent!” 

Ezra was outright glaring now, and Crowley realized he was going too far. Or, rather, he wasn’t making the point he was intending to make. 

“Look,” he said, hands up in a placating gesture. “Look, ‘m not, ‘m not judging, alright. Or, or saying you shouldn’t hoard your books, keep ‘em safe. ‘M just saying, you’re a bastard. And, and you look all nice and soft, but that’s not the whole story, is it?”

The angel didn’t look particularly soothed by this, so Crowley continued. “I wasn’t meaning it like a bad thing,” he said softly. “I think… I think it’s good, that you’re protective of what you think is important. Just pointing out, yeah, it’s not like I’m the only one who’s… who’s not what he looks like.” 

There was a long silence, and Crowley fought the urge to sigh. That was that, then. Shouldn’t have surprised him, he always screwed things up. Plus side, Ezra had no pending orders. There wouldn’t be a need to cancel anything, or any awkward, painful frostiness if he came in to pick something up. He could get up, wish him well, and never see him again. Better this way, he was already half in love with the man, letting this go any further would’ve been asking for trouble. 

He coughed. “Right,” he said, scratching his neck. “Right, I’ll just. Uh.” 

Jaw clenched, he went to stand. He’d no sooner moved, however, than Ezra’s hand shot out, hovering awkwardly over his own. He froze, unable to look at the other man’s face, eyes staring down at that hand. 

“Don’t go,” Ezra said quietly, hesitating a moment longer before laying his hand atop Crowley’s. There was something in his voice, something so small and a little desperate, and Crowley couldn’t believe it because what did Ezra have to feel small and desperate about?

Crowley swallowed, eyes still on the hand, on their hands. Tentatively, he turned his own over, equal parts thrilled, relieved, and confused, when Ezra’s turned to lace their fingers together. 

“Didn’t mean it like it sounded,” he said softly, as close to an apology as he could get. 

Ezra chuckled, an awkward, slightly pained thing. “I know that,” he said. “I think I’ve gotten to know you rather well, all things considered. I just… hmph. Well. I have a bit of a temper.” 

“Hadn’t noticed,” Crowley said, only slightly sarcastic. He looked up just in time to see Ezra’s eyes narrow, lips twitching like he had almost smiled. “Can’t send me rude bouquets, angel. I’d recognize ‘em.” 

The laugh was less awkward this time, and it warmed him from the inside out. “Yes, well.” Ezra paused, looking like he was thinking very hard, considering his words carefully. “It’s not often I have someone I can… can talk to. Properly. I find that I… I’m less inclined to temper myself, with you. I don’t normally snap like that, you know. But, I suppose…” 

His free hand reached out, slowly, questioningly, pausing for a breath before it made contact with Crowley’s cheek, drawing his gaze up to meet the angel’s. “I suppose I don’t worry about it so much,” he said thoughtfully. “You call me a bastard as a compliment. It feels like… like permission.” 

Crowley frowned, cheeks burning, heart pounding, his entire being centered on the hand on his cheek and the words Ezra spoke. On those blue eyes, staring into his. He should’ve taken his glasses off. He hadn’t, it was bright, it would hurt, but right now he hated that he needed him more than he ever had. 

“Permission?” he asked, throat dry, not quite following. 

“Mm.” Another small nod, and Crowley realized they’d gotten closer. When had that happened? He swore they’d been a good three feet apart at the start of this, he’d closed some of that distance when he’d sat up, but not this much. Ezra had done that, had moved in, had leaned closer. When?

“Permission to feel… well. Just to feel, I suppose.” He smiled a little, eyes sad. “My family wasn’t big on emotions, you know. Stuffy. Made me a little… passive aggressive, I suppose. But, I know that, if I say what I mean, tell you how I feel… that you won’t judge me for it.” 

Crowley swallowed again. “Never,” he confirmed, squeezing Ezra’s hand gently. 

“I wouldn’t judge you, either,” the angel said. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” 

Crowley snorted. “A good one?” he asked, unsure. 

He saw Ezra move, this time. A very slow, deliberate thing, drawing in closer, the hand on Crowley’s cheek guiding him. He paused, inches between them. Crowley’s eyes were already half-closed. 

“I think we could be,” Ezra whispered, and then his lips were on Crowley’s, and everything else vanished. 

Crowley froze, the half-closed eyes shooting open in shock, as if he hadn’t seen this coming, as if it hadn’t been obvious. But then, it hadn’t, had it? How could it be, when just moments before he’d been sure he’d ruined everything? 

It occurred to him, at the last possible second, that he might ruin things again if he didn’t get it together. He could feel Ezra’s uncertainty, the minute shift as the other man prepared to break the kiss, to pull away. He could already hear the apology, the awkward rambling, and heaven and hell, he couldn’t let that happen. 

Just before their lips parted, he pushed forward, releasing Ezra’s hand so that he could cup his cheek, his other hand reaching around to the back of his head, fingers buried in his hair. Someone made a sound, he wasn’t sure who. All that mattered was that it was soft, needy, the sort of sound someone made that meant ‘never stop kissing me.’ It didn’t seem like either of them were of a mind to do any such thing, not any time soon, anyway. Which suited Crowley just fine, thanks. 

It did break, eventually, and the pair stared at each other for a second before diving back in, the second kiss more sure, lips and hands seeking and searching and giving way to tongues and teeth, hair pulling, nails scratching. It was only when Ezra pressed his body forward, when Crowley lost his balance and broke this second kiss by falling backwards, that he remembered where they were. 

“Angel,” he tried, hands sliding down to the other man’s chest. Ezra didn’t seem to notice, trying to correct their positioning and continue kissing. 

“Angel.” More firm this time, arms stiff, hands pushing back rather than holding still. Ezra blinked, flustered and flushed and it very nearly made Crowley forget his reason for stopping them. 

“... Dear?” Ezra asked, panting slightly, the haze in his eyes clearing somewhat as he frowned. 

“Picnic,” Crowley said, then inhaled sharply. “Picnic, we’re on a picnic. In the middle of the day, in the middle of a very public park.” 

“Oh,” Ezra replied. Then, eyebrows shooting upwards, “Oh!” He flushed crimson, scrambling backwards on their blanket, a hand covering his mouth. “I-! Oh, I’ve never-” 

“Think we should relocate,” Crowley interrupted, waving away his date’s self-defense. He didn’t need to hear that Ezra had never lost control like that in public bef- 

Actually, no wait, he’d like very much to hear that. But, later. Sooner rather than later. At his flat, or Ezra’s, on a couch, in between snogging like teenagers. Oh, yes. 

Ezra blinked owlishly. 

“I mean, assuming you want to, uh. Continue this,” Crowley said. “Just this, I mean. I wasn’t, uh. Implying anything else. Just. Would like to keep doing this without,” he gestured at the park in general, “I dunno. Offending someone.” 

Ezra’s expression softened, even as he smirked at Crowley. “Offending someone,” he repeated, obviously not believing that Crowley would care about doing any such thing. 

“Well,” Crowley conceded, smiling devilishly. “More like, I don’t wanna be interrupted.” 

“Well.” Ezra composed himself, then began packing up the basket. “By all means, dear. My place, or yours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're done here! I'm usually very bad at ending things, but I think this is as good a stopping point as any. Thanks for reading, for all the kudo's, and for indulging me. This is literally the first time I've actually finished a published fanfiction (see: previously stated inability to end things), so I'm going to take that as a victory all on its own. 
> 
> I did think about having something where Crowley meets Gabriel and co, but it doesn't really match the tone of the rest of the fic. Maybe a one-shot later? We'll see.
> 
> [Now with a Podfic! Thanks, Djapchan!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882556)


End file.
